


The Carnivorous Animal's Table Manners

by Saucery



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Backstory, Bad Touch, Between Seasons/Series, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Courtship, Cross-Generation Relationship, Drama, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Humor, M/M, Mentors, Near Future, Pack Dynamics, Pop Culture, Post Season 2, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Romance, Secrets, Snark, Supernatural Elements, Survival Training, Training, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-03
Updated: 2013-01-21
Packaged: 2017-11-13 11:31:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter has excellent table manners. Even when he's helping himself to a feast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [1001cranes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/gifts).



> The title of this story is shamelessly borrowed (uh, translated?) from _[Nikushokujuu Table Manner](http://manga.animea.net/nikushokujuu-no-table-manner.html)_ by Kusama Sakae.

* * *

 

Man, this summer is gonna suck. There's literally no one to hang out with. Lydia's out of town with Jackson on their very own honeymoon - emphasis on _moon_ , since Jackson will undoubtedly turn into a horn-dog (horn-wolf?) during the full moon. Scott's stuck in summer school because his grades hit rock-bottom after the whole fallout with Allison, and Allison's out-of-bounds because of the whole fallout with Scott. Danny's busy with his new boyfriend, who happens to be the other ex-boyfriend of his ex-boyfriend. (God, the drama. It's like a frickin' soap opera, around here.) The only three people remaining that Stiles can nominally call friends are Erica, Boyd and Isaac, except that they're more the call-us-only-in-911-situations-or-we'll-rip-your-throat-out type of friends, because clearly they're following in Derek's footsteps, so.

This summer? Is gonna suck.

Even worse than normal friendless suckage, because Dad's decided to have a paying guest stay with them to cover the expenses, and Stiles can't even complain, since the only reason they need a paying guest to cover the expenses is because Stiles had temporarily gotten his dad fired, and they'd lost several months' worth of income, right there. Stiles is guilty enough about it that he doesn't make a peep, even when Dad hints that the paying guest is _also_ gonna be doubling as a tutor for Stiles.

A tutor.

Is the universe just messing with him, now? Is this a thing? It's gotta be a thing.

Stiles doesn't realize just how royally the universe is screwing with him, though, until the third day of his mind-numbingly boring summer break, when the front door opens and Dad walks in, and…

…Peter Hale walks in right after him.

Peter. Hale.

 _Peter Hale_.

Stiles - who at that very moment is loitering in the kitchen entrance and chugging milk straight from the carton - chokes.

And nearly kills himself by spluttering and gasping, until his dad thumps him on the back and tells him to stop spazzing, which would be easy enough to do if there wasn't a _mass-murdering arch-villain_ in their fucking _home_ , Jesus Christ.

"Wha - " he manages, finally, shoving the carton back into the fridge and wiping the back of his hand across his (no doubt foaming) mouth. "Why - "

"You must be Stiles," Peter says, the same way he had when they'd first met, eyes sharply amused and just as sharply knowing, and the bastard is absolutely enjoying the chill that runs through Stiles at the blatant reminder of all the times this guy has nearly killed him, or nearly killed his friends.

Stiles shrinks back against the fridge. In a subtle, not-really-shrinking-but-rather-raising-his-chin-in-defiant-valor sort of way.

Peter's eyes _crinkle_.

Oh. God. Stiles is gonna die.

But Stiles's dad just shrugs off his jacket and hangs it up, as comfortable as if he isn't in the presence of a deadly werewolf that could tear through a titanium bank vault with its bare claws, let alone a standard-issue police jacket that isn't worth shit against bullets, not to mention supernatural beasts with talons the size of butcher-knives.

Speaking of knives… Stiles edges toward the counter with the knife-holder on it. Knives won't kill Peter, but maybe they'll slow him down?

Yeah, no. _Death_ couldn't slow him down.

"Um, Dad?" Stiles croaks, darting nervous, unwilling glances at his father, not wanting to take his attention off Peter for a second. Peter watches him right back, the same old 'just your friendly neighborhood psycho-man' expression on his face.

But Dad only beams at Stiles. Happily. "Stiles, this is Peter. Peter Hale, you know the Hales, right?"

Know. The. Hales.

Dad's sending him this significant _look_ , which means - what? Don't talk about the arresting-of-Derek-Hale-on-false-charges incident? Or the arresting-him-on-false-charges- _again_ -incident? Or the calling-out-a-manhunt-on-Derek-before-realizing-he-was-in-fact-innocent incident? Is Stiles not supposed to insult or upset their precious house-guest by reminding him of the Hales' patchy history with the law? What?

"Peter used to be my friend, way back," Dad says, easily, and Stiles's focus _snaps_ to him, shocked.

"It's true," Peter puts in, like Stiles's dad would even lie about something so preposterous.

"Ha ha ha," says Stiles, playing along, because if he doesn't, Peter might just gut his dad before he even gets around to gutting Stiles. "That's awesome, Dad. From school?"

"Yep. We were both on the basketball team. Peter was our ace. A genuine prodigy."

"You flatter me," Peter demurs, and Stiles is so dizzy with incredulity that he probably resembles a confused Dalek more than he does a human being. He definitely does a bit of Dalek-like flailing that doesn't signify very much. Except, maybe, 'Danger! Danger! Will Robinson!'

But Dad's an awful Will Robinson. He can't or won't understand Stiles's sign language of terror. Instead, he just claps Peter on the shoulder and says, " _Mi casa es tu casa_ , Peter. Like always."

Peter actually ducks his head, looking humbled and moved and - and _vulnerable_ , what the fuck? "And you're very kind, John. Like always."

"Nah," and great, Dad's looking humbled and moved, too. Any minute now, he and Peter are gonna start braiding each other's hair. Although Peter has more hair to braid. Rich, wavy, GQMF hair. Damn him.

"No, I mean it, John." And Peter's voice is quiet, serious, gentle, utterly unlike anything Stiles has ever heard from him before. Stiles stares, his jaw hanging open, as Peter continues: "You always helped me out, even - even way back, when… I told you about me."

Say _what_? Told Dad about what? Not about being a werewolf, surely, or Dad would've known about everything that went down in the last year.

"Peter, it's okay," Dad rushes to say. "That was years ago. You saved my ass first, remember? And you didn't need to get bullied because of - "

"No. No, John, let me say this." Peter takes a deep breath, as if this is something important he has to say, something meaningful, as if he has emotions beyond 'KILL MAIM KILL' and is even capable of finding things meaningful. "And again, when I've managed to recover my health but have lost my home, you - you welcome me into _your_ home. I don't know what I'd do without your help, John." Peter swallows; his throat clicks. "Thank you."

And Dad hugs him. A real bro-hug, manly and brief but very, very tight - the same hug Stiles gives to Scott when Scott's down about something, but won't say what.

This is surreal. This is impossible.

Peter used to be Dad's Scott? No way. No. Way.

Dad is hugging a _serial killer_.

Stiles tenses up, every single muscle in his body strung tight, like he's nothing but a collection of rubber-bands about to snap. Stiles will kill Peter if he does anything to Dad. Kill him dead.

Peter just meets Stiles's eyes over Dad's shoulder, like he can hear every one of Stiles's thoughts, and _approves_. Which - what?

"I, um," Stiles breaks in, when they pull away from each other. "Dad, can I talk to you for a minute? Alone." Not that it'll make much of a difference, since Stiles can tell from the amused tilt of Peter's head that he'll be able to hear every word. Whatever.

"Sure," Dad blinks, and follows Stiles into the hallway. "Listen, son, it's very rude to call me out like this, he might think he's not welcome - "

"How do you know you can trust him?" Stiles whispers, sorely tempted to spill everything, even though Dad can't know about werewolves, because knowing will put him in _danger_ , but then, isn't Peter a far more immediate danger?

"I grew up with him," Dad says, stern and even-voiced. "What do you think he's going to do, steal from us? Stiles, he's lost everything. His family. Nearly seven years of his _life_. He was comatose and horribly injured, and just when he woke up, he got kidnapped from the hospital - "

"He what?" Was that how Peter had explained away his mysterious disappearance?

"He was kidnapped, and his nurse was killed."

Stiles shudders; he remembers her corpse in the trunk of Peter's car, bloody and torn-up. Fuck.

"And it was all done by Kate Argent, the same woman who murdered his entire family. And then, as if that wasn't enough, his nephew went missing. Is _still_ missing."

Derek. Missing. Right. Not fostering a family of werepuppies in a literal train-wreck that is in no way a metaphor for his life. Nope.

"Don't you think Peter's been through a lot? Now that he's back and physically healed, he just needs a place to regroup, to find his feet while the Hale house gets rebuilt. Do you think I'm going to begrudge him that? Would you begrudge _Scott_ that? Even decades later?"

"No," Stiles admits, sullenly, still trying to wrap his brain around the image of his dad and Peter playing basketball, as kids. "I wouldn't."

"Stiles, you've known I was about to have someone over. You never said no."

"I didn't know it was _him!_ "

"Why? Do you know him?"

Stiles's mouth opens and closes.

"You couldn't know him. How could you? This is just about having anyone staying with us, at all. And, look, I know you were planning on having a carefree holiday, and you don't want to study - "

"This isn't about _that_ \- "

"It is, and you know it. Peter's been nice enough to offer to tutor you, for a couple of hours each day. I didn't even ask; he _offered_. That's how decent he is. And he shouldn't feel like he owes us, because he doesn't, so… you're going to get tutored by him."

"My grades are way better than Scott's!"

"But still not good enough for college." Dad glowers at him. "You've been distracted this year. More distracted than usual. Maybe it was Lydia getting together with Jackson, or - "

"Dad, stop."

"Fine." Dad slumps. "Just… be kind to him. He needs some kindness in his life."

Stiles has no idea what his face is doing - possibly it resembles a rictus of incredulous insanity - but Dad just sighs, and brushes past him as he returns to the kitchen.

Peter doesn't seem in the least bit perturbed by what he must've overheard. His smile is as pleasant as it was before.

"Well!" Dad bustles back into his jacket, all bright and cheerful. "Stiles, get Peter settled in, all right? I've got the split-shift, so I've gotta head to the police station for a bit. Peter, there's dinner in the fridge. See you guys!"

And then, just like that, Dad's gone again, the door swinging shut behind him.

And Stiles is alone in the kitchen. With Peter.

Peter, who just stands there with his feet apart, totally relaxed, looking Stiles up and down, like -

Like -

"Whatever it is you're up to," Stiles accuses, "it's not gonna work."

"Oh?" Peter takes a step toward him; Stiles takes a step back. "I think it's working wonderfully."

"What the hell are you even here for?"

"Why, I thought the answer was obvious." And Peter's _still_ stalking toward him. "You."

"Yeah, right." Stiles decides to stand his ground, because, why not? If he's gonna get his lungs torn out of him, he might as well get them torn out with dignity. No point in backing away until he's cornered against a wall, like - like _prey_. "Why aren't you with Derek and the rest of his pack?"

"Derek has… understandable trust issues, for once, and doesn't seem to want me around his pups. I volunteered to be elsewhere, while he trained them. He asked where. I said here."

"Here?" Stiles's voice cracks. "With the _sheriff_? And he agreed?"

"Can't hurt to have a friend on the force." Peter's smile turns distinctly toothy. "That, and I said we ought to have you onboard."

"On… onboard with _what_?"

"The pack."

"Uh, I already am. With Scott, y'know? And the way I turn up whenever I'm called? No matter how risky it is?"

"Yes," Peter hisses, pleased. "Yes, that. Exactly."

"I don't get what you're - is this about Turning me? Is that it? Because the answer is still no. And you can't Turn me anymore, can you? You're not the Alpha."

"I'm not," Peter agrees. "But I _can_ make sure you're trained, like Boyd and Isaac and Erica are getting trained."

Stiles gapes at him. "You - is this what you meant by 'tutoring'? When you talked to my dad?"

"Survival skills of the supernatural variety," Peter concurs. "The pack needs you; I belong to the pack. Therefore, I need you. To stay alive. And alive, you will stay, if I have anything to say about it."

"If Derek has anything to say about it, you mean."

Peter makes a noncommittal sound. "All for one, one for all."

"Don't quote movies at me! You're supposed to be a creepy killer, not a - a - "

" - a charming gentleman with some knowledge of pop culture?"

Stiles snorts. "I still think you're planning to kill me."

"I'm really not."

"Or my dad."

"Definitely not. He used to be my friend."

"Laura used to be your _family_."

Peter's face blanks, for a frightening moment, his eyes shards of broken ice. But then, as quickly as the change had happened, it's gone, and Peter's warm and benevolent again.

Stiles's heart thuds in his chest.

"You smell like fear," Peter observes, almost politely. "But you shouldn't be afraid."

"Tell that to someone you haven't threatened to kill, before."

"I never threatened to kill you."

"Yeah, you did."

"Not _you_." Peter's face-to-face with him, now, smelling of pine needles and leather and, distantly, the coppery scent of blood. Maybe he was hunting, this morning, before Dad brought him over. "Never you, Stiles. In fact, I offered you the bite. I offered you a _gift_. If you had taken it, then…" Peter seems wistful. "Oh, things would have turned out different. _Very_ different. For the both of us."

There's something - weird - about the way Peter says 'both of us'. Something that doesn't go too well with how close Peter's standing to him, or how Peter's looking at him, looking at his _mouth_.

Stiles licks his lips, nervously, and glances away. And glances back, when he senses Peter studying his throat, instead.

He feels pinned, by Peter's gaze, like a butterfly on a lepidopterist's board. Like Peter is fond of Stiles's pretty wings, fond enough to tear them off, one by one, and put labels on them. Neat little labels, penned lovingly, by hand.

Stiles isn't an idiot. He's done his research. He knows what the offer had meant, coming from an Alpha. He'd spent a few weeks freaking out about it, even after knowing - thinking - that Peter was dead, and wouldn't be making the same offer again.

But then, like a typical supervillain, Peter had come back to life. And now, Peter's standing here, in the same leather jacket as before, looking at Stiles with the same hunger as before.

"Even if you were an Alpha, the answer would still be no," says Stiles, and flinches when Peter's hand comes up to touch his face.

"I know," Peter says, softly, nails curling against Stiles's nape. Just nails, not claws. Not yet. "But, oddly enough, Betas have more freedom in some matters than Alphas do."

Stiles stiffens, alarmed. "You - "

"Don't worry. I won't do anything… inopportune."

"Your _being here_ is inopportune."

"You could always send me away," Peter says, reasonably. "You could tell your father about Derek. About me. About the werewolves. But then he'll be involved in that world, and will almost certainly die protecting you from it. And you don't want that, do you?"

Stiles grits his teeth. "You're a bastard."

"For holding your father hostage? Hardly. I'm promising to keep him _safe_."

"Yeah, sure, like the mafia promises 'protection' to neighborhood shops."

Peter tuts. "You know that's not it. If you're pack, then he's pack. And if he's pack, then he _is_ our business. My business. Mine to protect."

"I don't want him to be."

"Then he won't be." Peter's fingers slide down Stiles's neck, too human and too careful, somehow more unnerving because they _don't_ have claws. It's like being played with by a tiger that's trying, very deliberately, not to puncture holes in its prey. "But you do want to be able to protect him better, don't you? And protect yourself better, for his sake. I'm giving you that. A chance to be safer, stronger, more useful. I know you'll take it."

"I won't take anything from _you_."

"Oh, but you will." Peter leans closer and sniffs, and it's just as creepy-bad-wrong as it should be, breath and heat against Stiles's skin, dangerously close to Stiles's mouth. "I can smell it on you."

And Stiles has had enough. He shoves, with both palms, and Peter lets himself be shoved - makes it plain that he's _letting_ himself be shoved. "Get away from me."

"Think about it. Tonight. And if you still want me gone by tomorrow, then I'll be gone."

"And what'll I tell my dad?"

"That I changed my mind. That I didn't need a place to stay, after all."

"He'll blame me for it."

"Will he?" Peter's conveniently unconcerned. "Too bad."

Stiles sidesteps Peter and points up the staircase. "Wanna see your room? Just for the night?"

"Just for the night," Peter smirks. "Of course."

So Stiles shows him the guest room - which is, unfortunately, the room next to Stiles's, a mirror image of his own. If Mom and Dad had had a second kid, this room would've belonged to Stiles's little brother or sister.

Instead, it's going to have Peter Hale staying in it.

The very thought is sickening.

Peter has just one duffel bag's worth of belongings, and one laptop bag, both of which Peter had left at the front door, but is now carrying into the room with him.

"Don't bother unpacking," Stiles says, and glares when Peter unpacks, anyway. "I won't say yes."

"You will." Peter sounds so patient, damn him. "You need the training, so you'll take it."

"I'll be the judge of what I need, thanks."

"So you say." Peter pulls a couple jeans out of his duffel, as well as some disturbingly silky boxer shorts in blue and black and grey. Stiles snatches his eyes away from them, feeling unaccountably awkward. Intrusive, even. Which is ridiculous, because this is his _home_. "All you live for is protecting the ones dear to you. You'd make an excellent werewolf; you understand the pack mentality better than most humans do."

"It's perfectly normal for humans to stick by their families, you speciesist jackass."

"Speciesist?" Peter raises his eyebrows, then _grins_ \- a small, hungry grin, as feral as it is affectionate. "And you wonder why I enjoy your company."

"I don't _wonder_ \- "

"You never quite figured out why I offered you the bite, did you? Maybe this time, I can help you understand."

"I don't _want_ to understand." Stiles is flushing. Why is he flushing? "I don't."

"Hm." Peter's nostrils flare, and he gives Stiles this… overwhelmingly smug side-eye, and Stiles honestly does not care what Peter thinks he knows, or what he smells, because the one thing Stiles has learned from Scott is that even werewolf senses can get things wrong, or get _interpretations_ wrong, because super-senses don't make up for idiocy (in Scott's case) or psychopathy (in Peter's case).

"When Dad mentioned dinner," Stiles says, abruptly, "he meant meatloaf. No raw cow-parts, sorry."

"I don't require raw meat."

"But you prefer it, don't you?"

"There are many, many things," Peter murmurs, giving Stiles one of his raking, frankly invasive once-overs, "that I _prefer_."

"And you won't be getting any of them. Congratulations."

Peter laughs. It's sudden, startling and nothing like the maniacal-laughter-preceding-villainous-monologue that Stiles might have expected from Peter. It's just… a laugh. A human laugh, husky and indulgent and fond, and it's got to be a mask, part of Peter's mask, because there's no way it could be _real_. Stiles will trust that laugh sooner than he'll trust a dagger sticking halfway out of his back.

"Shut up," Stiles grumbles. "Stop being all - " He flaps his hand at Peter.

"All…?" Peter quietens to chuckles. "All what, Stiles?"

"All whatever," Stiles snipes. "You're not fooling me, is all I'm saying."

" _Is_ that all you're saying?" Another chuckle when Stiles scowls. "Something tells me this is the start of a beautiful friendship."

"No, it's the start of a beautiful horror story that will end with my blood on the shower-curtains and my innards splattered all over the bathtub."

"Your talent for exaggeration never fails to entertain me. Nevertheless, I must insist that I do not know what you did last summer."

Stiles gawks. "Did you just - are you watching teenage slasher movies from the nineties, now? What the hell?"

"Erica enjoys collecting them."

"Holy crap." Is this what down-time is like, for Derek's pack? Actual horror by night, horror movies by day? No surprise they're all growing up to be psychos, then. Jesus.

"But I will know what you do _this_ summer."

"Okay. Okay, fine, just - stop." Stiles covers his face with his hands. He is _not_ gonna giggle. If he does, he'll just end up sounding hysterical. "Stop. Please."

Peter's expression, when Stiles drops his hands, is strangely avid. Watchful. His eyes are glowing, ever-so-slightly, like embers in a banked fire.

Stiles has never been more aware of being alone in a room with someone. Alone in a _bedroom_. It makes Stiles uncomfortable - in the very precise way that Peter scenting his neck had made him uncomfortable - so Stiles clears his throat and jerks his thumb toward the door. "I gotta. Um. I."

"Go ahead," says Peter, almost gently. "What time is dinner?"

"Uh. Whenever, I guess. Nine?"

"Nine." Peter nods. "Good."

"Good," Stiles echoes, and all but stumbles out of the room. "Right."

He's got a murderous, recently resurrected werewolf in his house. To _tutor_ him. Great.


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

 

 

Peter's awake and meditating by the time he's called down for breakfast. Meditation… helps, he's found, helps to restore to him some semblance of calm after a night spent screaming soundlessly into his pillow and clawing uselessly at the mattress (both of which he'll have to find a way to replace, before Peter leaves this house, in a way that won't, hopefully, catch the attention of its owner). The nightmares of flame have been mostly subsumed by nightmares of earth, of maggots and a black, tar-like substance clogging his decaying throat, bubbling up to his mouth and eating into his rotting tongue.

At least there's variety to his nightmares, now. Different sorts of pain. A difference preferable, by far, to the years of tortured monotony after the fire, in which his burned skin and scarred mind had knitted themselves together far too slowly, gradual enough for each minuscule repair to be _tangible_ , a pull of the sharpest needle and agonizingly barbed thread, but now, his repair is entirely in his hands, and he's determined to do a good job of it.

Which is why he's determined not to rush things, this time, and to choose his vendettas with care, expending energy only on those projects which, for the moment, will assist in his healing and consolidate his strength.

Stiles is chief among those projects.

Arguably, Stiles _is_ the only project, and all the other projects are merely adjacent at best, dependent at worst.

He'd only just fixated on Stiles as a potential mate before he had been killed; as Peter's last pleasant memory before the long, cold claustrophobia of death, Stiles had grown even brighter in his mind, a light at the end of an airless tunnel, a soft and luminous thing, elusive as a will-o'-the-wisp and yet constant as an inner moon, always overhead, always just out of reach, calling to the wolf within. Calling perpetually.

And here, in a place practically doused with the boy's scent, like a hothouse rose that has carelessly perfumed its surroundings as a call to every honey-hungry predator in its vicinity - well, Peter can hardly be blamed for taking refuge in meditation, cooling his heels in the remembrance of the grave, reminding himself of the importance of patience, of thoroughness, of the _wait_.

He isn't quite so disciplined as to believe that patience is its own reward, but he does believe that patience yields its own rewards.

And he knows - he can smell - that with Stiles, the reward is very much within reach.

It makes things worse, in a way.

It makes them better. Infinitely better.

Tantalizing. Titillating. Spurring his mind away from its meditative trance and into a fugue of more fevered images, more pleasurable -

"Holy - what're you doing?"

And there's the boy, at the door, as Peter opens his eyes and breathes in deep, with his mouth parted, to taste _and_ smell Stiles's presence, the shape of his body as it disturbs the air, the recentness of his shower and his daily (unusually furtive - perhaps he fears that Peter is paying attention?) masturbation.

"Is this some kinda Vulcan thing? Something you're doing so you don't, like, go apeshit and try to Pon Farr my dad? 'Cause, in that case, I can leave you alone. In fact, I'd _like_ to leave you alone. I'm… leaving you alone, right now - "

"Don't."

Stiles's eyes widen, and he takes a step back -

Oh. Peter has risen partway to his feet, uncoiling from his cross-legged posture into something closer to a crouch, the sort that presages a pounce. "It isn't your father," he offers, conversationally, as he finishes rolling upright in a somewhat less predatory fashion, "that I would go into 'Pon Farr' for."

"Ha. Ha ha," says Stiles, weakly, eyes widening even further as he takes in Peter's shirtlessness over his track-pants, before snatching his eyes away and deciding - visibly deciding - to ignore what Peter is implying. "You watch Star Trek?"

"Your talent for evasion may one day to lead you into politics." Pack politics, preferably.

Stiles snorts. "No, thanks. I've just studied every one of the Enterprise's evasive maneuvers, is all. They can teach you a lot about human behavior."

"Can they?" Peter tilts his head. _He's_ not human.

Stiles hedges. "Yeah, they can. And put a shirt on, Jesus. What the hell were you doing, anyway?"

"Meditating." He doesn't put on a shirt, mostly because he knows how much it discomfits Stiles, but also because it would be pointless, given what they have to do, shortly.

"You - meditating." Stiles gapes at him. "Seriously. You? Meditating? What, are you gonna tell me you raise bonsai trees, too? Maybe practice a little feng-shui?"

"No," says Peter, "and yes."

Stiles blinks. Several times. " _Where?_ Derek's rundown train-compartment?"

"We're rebuilding the Hale residence. I'm putting in a few suggestions."

"A few - fine. You know what? I don't need this information. Because you're going from Disney villain to Cartoon Network villain, fast, and I'm not sure I know what to _do_ with that. I mean, I thought you were Scar, but apparently, you're HIM."

"Him…?"

"And I'm Buttercup. Oh, god. Get that image out of my _head_ \- "

"If you're asking me to contradict your self-assessment as a delicate flower, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

Stiles chokes. "Fuck, no. That's not what I - and Scott's Blossom. And Isaac's Bubbles. Crap."

Peter isn't, unfortunately, familiar with cartoon characters, but Stiles's vaguely alarmed expression is appealing enough for him to disregard his own lack of knowledge. (After coming back to life, he's been doing everything he can to educate himself in things relevant to today's youth, from pop culture to online social networking, in order to better court Stiles.) "Is there breakfast?"

"Yeah, but I haven't eaten yet - "

"Excellent."

"Excellent? Why is my imminent starvation excellent?"

"Because you won't be able to do what I will have you do on a full stomach."

Stiles looks panicked. "Have - have me do? What will you have me do?" He crosses his arms over his chest, as if to defend himself. It's a surprisingly adorable gesture, given that it does nothing other than draw Peter's attention to that fast-beating heart, full of blood, and the nipples peaking in the slight morning chill, their contours visible through Stiles's worn T-shirt.

Stiles is almost too perfect, as prey, to teach him how to be otherwise. It's a pity, except that then Peter thinks about someone _else_ preying on Stiles, perhaps one of the Alpha pack, and feels his hackles rise.

"Whoa. Whoa, whoa, whoa. Down, boy. What the hell are you planning to do to me?"

Peter shakes his head; his fangs subside. He should prevent himself from doing that, in the future, unless it is to protect Stiles. Else, Stiles might misunderstand. It's clear that Stiles has thought things over and has decided to take Peter up on his offer, or he'd be kicking Peter out, already. "Teach you."

"Teach - I'm not sure I want the kind of teaching that involves your shirtlessness and my having an empty stomach."

"It's simple sparring. The sort that ought to buy you a few precious minutes against a human combatant, if you're unarmed, or a werewolf combatant, if you're armed."

"Are we starting on Muay Thai, or something?"

"Or something," Peter confirms. "Take me to your backyard."

"Not 'take me to your leader'?"

"That would be Derek."

"Derek's not _my_ leader. Screw that." Stiles turns and leaves the room, clattering down the stairs. "You comin' or not?" he calls back.

Peter follows, slowly clenching and unclenching his fists, and wonders if Stiles knows how useful that makes him to Peter, and to Peter's plans, that Stiles doesn't consider Derek his leader, and never will.

*

They're still in the backyard, two hours later, with the sun beating down on them. It isn't noon yet, but it will be, soon, and it's sweltering enough for those who're exerting themselves.

Like Stiles.

Peter hasn't so much as broken a sweat, but that's only to be expected. He teaches Stiles the defensive basics, to start with, because the best offense is, indeed, a strong defense. He teaches Stiles how to fall, how to roll, how to avoid injury to his head and neck, and how to lessen the impact on his joints, so that he can jump back up and get into the fight again.

After two hours of falling, however, Stiles is panting and exhausted, and has gotten rid of his shirt, his shyness melting away under the exertion Peter's drills demand of him, sweat dripping down his face and onto his bare, dirt-smudged chest.

He's beautiful. All heat and salt and the fresh scent of young sweat, punctuated by a loud, staccato heartbeat that almost causes Peter's to spike in sympathy. He's been pushing Stiles, perhaps pushing Stiles more than he ought, but when Stiles flushes all over like this, who can blame Peter for pushing him?

"Time," Stiles wheezes, after falling and getting up for the umpteenth time. "Jesus. That's - that's enough, don't you think?"

"You've scarcely learned how to survive the first ten seconds of an attack. Get back into position."

"No." Stiles raises his chin defiantly, but the effect is somewhat spoiled by how desperately he's trying to catch his breath, how utterly the fight has gone out of him. That's why he needs to learn how to keep going, even _after_ the fight has left him, even after he's tired. It's almost more important than any other lesson Peter will ever teach him.

"Get back. Into. Position."

" _No_."

Beautiful. How many humans would deny him, knowing what he's capable of? Not a one, among the many Peter has known so far. Only this boy. Only his _equal_ -

But he must be taught to fight, first.

Peter steps up to Stiles, casually, and ignores Stiles's flinch as he reaches for Stiles's throat. Wraps his hand around it.

Stiles keeps staring at him. He doesn't break eye-contact, not even for an instant.

Brave. Brave and stupid -

Brave and _his_ -

Peter lifts Stiles effortlessly, with that one hand, and slams him against the side of the house. Stiles's head makes a dull thunk against the wood. Nothing serious enough to cause injury, but serious enough to remind Stiles how completely he is at Peter's mercy.

"What do you want," Peter asks, "if not to keep training?"

"I want to rest," Stiles rasps, from within Peter's grasp. "I want water."

"You can't get water. I have the water. You can't defeat me. So you can't get at it. You'll dehydrate to death."

Stiles struggles briefly - futilely - but gives up within a few moments, as if sensing that he's already on his last reserves of energy, and can't afford to spend anymore. He glares at Peter, silently, then says: "I can still bargain."

"Oh? And what can you give me?" Peter brushes a taloned thumb against Stiles's throat, just scraping the skin, and watches Stiles gulp.

"Nothing, come to think of it," Stiles says, rebelliously. "I don't negotiate with terrorists. Or madmen."

"Come, now, Stiles. Terrorist? No. Madman? Yes. Be accurate. And here's a hint: You _can_ negotiate with terrorists, but never with a madman. He's mad. That's sort of the point."

Stiles gulps again, but this time, it's to keep his throat moist. "I want some water," he says, and then, thinking about it, "please."

Begging. Oh, yes, Stiles knows exactly what Peter wants from him. "All right," Peter says. "You'll accept water from me, but only on my own terms."

"What terms can there be about a bottle of wat - hey, wait. What're you doing?" A trace of worry enters Stiles's voice.

Peter ignores it. Detaches the bottle strapped to his waist with a free hand, uncaps it with his teeth, and takes a sip. And then another.

"That water's for _me_ , you bastard! God knows you werewolves don't get thirsty so quickly!"

What Stiles hasn't realized is that while Peter is holding the water bottle, he _is_ Stiles's god. In this little game of theirs, at any rate.

Peter says nothing further, just tips Stiles's chin further back, presses a finger to Stiles's lower lip to make it dip, and kisses him.

Pushes the water into Stiles's mouth with his tongue, sealing his lips around the boy's, fighting the initial surge of Stiles trying to push him away, and instead staying, _staying_ , until Stiles goes still, until Stiles swallows, greedily, giving in to his body's urgent demand for water, gasping for breath when Peter pulls away.

"More?" Peter asks him.

Stiles shakes his head - or tries to - but Peter doesn't heed those false signals, not when Stiles's eyes are fixed on his mouth, not when Stiles's body still smells like thirst, like _need_.

So Peter gives him more. Again and again, sip after sip, pausing to kiss Stiles for longer, each time, sampling that soft, soft mouth, the slickness and the sweetness of it, so young, so good, a thing of velvet and moss.

He senses Stiles starting to struggle again, after the fifth sip, Stiles's efforts emboldened as he recovers, but Peter just drops the bottle and holds Stiles still, then, lengthening his own fangs just enough to be a threat, to force Stiles into stillness again, so that Peter can keep kissing him.

Stiles is breathing harshly, by now. Making small, angry sounds that are everything Peter needs but not everything he _wants_ , for what he wants has no end. He brushes the hand he'd had around the bottle down Stiles's chest, raking a talon gently past a nipple, watching the boy arch suddenly, as though electrocuted.

"Sto - "

Peter doesn't stop. His chest is naked against Stiles's hot, sweat-moist skin, and it's glorious. He feels much like a wolf with a bird trapped in his jaws, and he must be careful not to break its bones, but must taste it nonetheless, _must_ , because there is no option but for him to taste it, and does Stiles not understand that Peter is as trapped by his desire as Stiles is by his fear?

It's only when Peter's palm drifts over Stiles's crotch - where Stiles is hard, leaking, dampening his shorts - that Stiles _shouts_ , curses, and pushes Peter away. He shoves Peter, heedless of the fangs, which Peter manages to retract just in time.

Not before they leave a nick on Stiles's lip, though, that same plush lower lip Peter had pressed a finger against, earlier, the same one he had _licked_ , and wants to lick again, because the cut is welling with a single drop of blood -

"You - you're a molester and a - a molester," Stiles pants, accusingly, placing a hand over his own crotch as if to hide his erection.

"And you're hard," Peter points out, peaceably.

"That's a natural reaction! To having someone touch my - touch me! Just leave me alone!"

And there's a shock entering Stiles's eyes, now, like he's only just realized what almost happened to him, what Peter almost did, what Peter _could_ have done, easily, had he pleased.

"Stay… stay away from me. I don't need your _tutoring_ ," Stiles spits, "or whatever you're calling your excuse for a - "

"I did nothing to you that your body did not demand."

"Yeah, well, bodies are dumb."

"On the contrary, bodies are very smart. One ought to listen to them."

"My body pops boners around people I'm not even attracted to, okay?"

"That's not possible."

"It totally is, or have you forgotten being a teenager?"

"I remember." Peter does. "Every detail. And I was never aroused in front of someone I was not attracted to, although it may have been someone I did not _wish_ to be attracted to."

"That! That's what it is."

"So you're attracted to me, even if you don't want to be?"

"Don't twist my words!"

"I'll leave," Peter says. "If it troubles you so, my wanting you, and my doing something about it, now and then. Stealing the occasional kiss."

"That was more than a _kiss_ , you goddamn - "

Peter shrugs, and pushes away from the wall. Gives the boy some much-needed space. "I'll go. You know that what I taught you today was useful - useful enough to keep you alive a little longer, maybe long enough to help your friends, your father, even Scott. You know you need to learn what I can teach you, about battling both humans and werewolves. You know that you'll likely die without that knowledge, one day, as will the people you'll fail to protect."

Stiles just looks at him. Helplessly. Angrily. That anger is useful; Peter should ensure that Stiles keeps it.

"Now, if you _want_ that to happen, I can leave. Or you can accept my tutelage, for the paltry fee of a kiss or two."

"I didn't agree to the kissing, this time."

"You will, from now on."

"You're a bastard."

"My parentage is not up for discussion," Peter remarks, mildly. "So? What do you say?"

"Nothing more than kissing?"

"Nothing more than kissing," Peter swears, finding himself amused by the fact that he could ask for more, and get it, because Stiles knows how badly he needs these lessons, now. Peter just showed him that, showed him what his vulnerability can cost him. "Nothing more than that, unless you ask for it."

"I won't _ask_ for it."

"We'll see."

"Screw you." 

"I'd be delighted to."

Stiles scowls, grabs his shirt from the ground, and stomps back into the house. "Don't spy on me while I shower!"

"I won't spy on you as you pleasure yourself, no," Peter smiles quietly, to himself, and stays outside for another half-hour, doing _katas_ of his own, because he needs to stay in shape.

 

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Like my writing? Check out [my blog](http://saucefactory.tumblr.com/)!


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